Winter had chosen that particular week to transform a simple cold into a terrible time to be alone.

Her parents had gone on a business trip, leaving the house far too quiet for someone who spent most of the day lying down, wrapped in blankets and trying to ignore the uncomfortable weight that seemed to have settled behind her eyes. The sudden change in temperature had brought the first colds of the season, and although you almost never got sick, this time your body seemed to have decided to exact its toll on all the exceptions of the past few years at once.

In just over three years of friendship and two years of dating Shinsuke Kita, you could count on your fingers the times you had actually caught a cold.

Kita remembered them all.

Your phone rang on the desk.

The sound seemed too loud in the silent room. It took you a few seconds to get up enough to reach it and answer. On the other end, his voice was as calm as ever, as if he had already mentally planned the rest of the night.

"Honey? I'm coming over. I bought the medicine according to your symptoms. You don't need to get out of bed until I arrive."

It was routine.

The night before, when he'd found out you had the flu, he'd done practically the same thing. Kita wasn't the type to ask five times if you needed anything; he simply listened, decided what needed to be done, and did it.

Shortly after, a new vibration swept through the room.

"I'm here."

You mustered the strength to get out of bed.

The cold floor beneath your feet made your body protest, but you crossed the hallway anyway, supporting yourself with a hand on the wall when dizziness came for a few seconds. The house remained quiet, illuminated only by the pale light coming through the windows and the yellowish glow of a forgotten lamp in the hallway.

When you opened the door, you found Kita on the other side.

The cold had left small reddish marks on your face. He wore a dark coat, scarf, and winter gloves, and a few old snowflakes still clung to the sides of his shoes. In one hand, he carried a bag of medicine; on the same arm, another package containing something he knew you'd like to eat.

Nothing too extraordinary.

Just Kita being himself.

His sharp eyes scanned you from head to toe even before he entered.

It didn't take a second.

Your weary face, your disheveled hair, the way you leaned against the doorframe—he registered it all with the same quiet attention he used to notice when a teammate was out of sorts.

Kita entered.

He closed the door behind him and took off his gloves, rubbing one hand against the other for a few seconds to regain warmth.

"You look worse than yesterday."

There was no accusation in the sentence. Kita trusted you enough to know you'd followed what he'd written the night before on the carefully folded piece of paper on the bedside table. It was just an observation.

He placed the bags on the table and, before doing anything else, briefly touched your forehead with the back of his hand.

His cold hand met your overly warm skin.

His gaze narrowed slightly.

"Go back to bed."

This time, there was something different in his voice.

It wasn't exaggerated concern. It was that quiet firmness you'd known for years—the same firmness that left no room for argument once he'd realized something was wrong.

Before turning away, he leaned in and placed a brief kiss on your forehead. A small, almost automatic gesture, but one that said enough.

Then, Kita picked up the bags and began organizing the medicine in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, you returned to your room.

A few minutes later, she heard the discreet sounds of the house changing rhythm: water being put on to boil, packages being opened, the soft clinking of utensils on the counter, and Kita's quiet footsteps crossing the hallway.

The house was no longer empty, and it no longer seemed so silent.